


Carnival of Souls

by PeaJay



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, Chess Metaphors, Drug Use, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, M/M, Rough Sex, Torture, bottom!John, top!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2017-12-27 19:53:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeaJay/pseuds/PeaJay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone is killing off members of the homeless network. Can the boys of Baker Street solve the case before the killer decides John is the one he's really after?</p><p>Cover for this work can be found here: http://i949.photobucket.com/albums/ad338/Hatter829/Benedict%20Cumberbatch/Sherlock/fanart/G8sfUJMN_zpsefb00bea.jpg <br/>(with thanks to the amazingly talented luvconnor on tumblr)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing.
> 
> Sherlock Holmes, John Watson et al. are creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (with the modern adaptation this fic is based on being created in the brilliant minds of Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss). I’ve just had a fiddle with them.

John looked down at the young boy lying in a heap on the cold floor in the abandoned warehouse. The lad couldn’t have been any older than sixteen – his face was obliterated beyond all recognition and he’d been stabbed so many times John lost count. He just couldn’t fathom it. Pinching his bottom lip, he just shook his head, never looking away from the boy. 

“All right?” Sherlock asked as he came to stand next to John.

“Hm? Mm,” was all John could manage. He bit his lower lip and took a ‘Parade Rest’ stance to help him get a handle on his emotions. “He’s just a boy, Sherlock. Who could do something like this,” John said waving a hand towards the body. “It’s just so…”

“Savage,” finished Sherlock.

John finally tore his eyes away from the body to look at Sherlock. “Yes,” he said. “Exactly.”

Sherlock gently touched John on the arm. “John.”

“I’m all right, Sherlock. Really. I just can’t believe how barbaric people can be.”

Sherlock nodded, satisfied with John’s answer, and stepped over to Inspector Bradstreet who was kneeling by the body.

“His I.D. says his name is Oswald Spencer,” said Bradstreet handing the card to Sherlock as he stood.

“Ozzie?” Sherlock looked back to the body, this time taking in every detail. 

“Sherlock, did you know the young man?” asked John.

Even though the boy’s facial features were unrecognisable, Sherlock was still able to deduce that the body lying before them was, in fact, Oswald Spencer.

“Yes,” answered Sherlock. “He helped me with some of my cases in the past. Last time I saw him he was working in a barrister’s office part-time – I helped him to get the job. Before that he’d been living rough since he was a child.” Sherlock stared at the lifeless body. 

“Sherlock, I’m so sorry.” John said putting his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder to comfort him.

Sherlock didn’t reply, but the gesture didn’t go unnoticed.

Bradstreet cleared his throat. “Yes, well… Sherlock, can you tell us anything else - maybe about the killer?”

Sherlock took several moments going over the body and looked around the warehouse, shaking his head and muttering to himself as he did so. Finally, he spotted it - a chess piece, up high in one of the warehouse windows. “There!” he shouted.

“What does it mean Sherlock?” said John.

“I believe the killer is telling us he thought of Ozzie as a pawn – a pawn in whatever game he’s playing. I fear poor Ozzie won’t be the last.”

Sherlock stood very still, thinking for another few minutes. He took one last look down at the young man he’d helped so many years ago, then turned quickly and walked away with John following close behind.

They reached the main road where Sherlock stopped and raised his arm to hail a cab.

“Sherlock, are you okay?”

“Perfectly fine, John. Why wouldn't I be?”

“Well, it’s just – you know? That poor lad. You got him off the street, you must have some feeling for the young man to have helped him like that.”

“I was just returning the favour. He helped me first.”

A cab stopped and Sherlock opened the door for John to clamber in. As John passed him he heard Sherlock say, “Some favour too…it got him killed.”

John slid across the seat. After telling the cabbie their destination he turned to Sherlock. “How do you mean?”

“If I’d have let him be, left him on the street and not meddled in his affairs, he wouldn't have been a target. He’d still be living on the streets – invisible. Like we were before.

“We?”

“Yes. We. He was a clever boy John. Uniquely so. He knew the streets like no one else I’ve seen since. I was never sure how long he’d actually been on the streets, but from what I’ve been able to deduce it had been since the age of nine – possibly eight.”

“My god,” gasped John. “How? How could a child survive for that long, and who would turn him out like that to live on the streets?”

“From what he told me, his family was killed in a home invasion. His mother hid him in a closet and he saw the whole thing. Once the intruders left, he ran and never went back. I tried once to find any family he had left, but there wasn’t any and as I said before John, he was a very clever boy. I’m not sure why he took to me though. You know me, I wasn’t much different then. Only then, I was high most of the time and angry all of the time. I hated my brother, my drug habit, my life…everything and everyone. Still, this little street urchin took to me. He kept me fed, kept me out of the elements and made sure I knew where to go to stay washed. I think he even pinched and sold my drugs from time to time, both to keep me from using and to keep us fed.”

“It’s not your fault Sherlock.” John grabbed Sherlock’s hand. “Whoever the bastard is that did this is solely to blame. You helped Ozzie. You helped get him a proper job and got him off the streets. I’m sure he was very grateful.”

“Maybe,” was all Sherlock said as he turned to face the window.

The rest of the journey to Baker Street passed in silence.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A second victim is found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing.
> 
> Sherlock Holmes, John Watson et al. are creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (with the modern adaptation this fic is based on being created in the brilliant minds of Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss). I’ve just had a fiddle with them.
> 
> This chapter hasn't been beta'd so please let me know if you find anything out of place. :)

A week passed with no real break in the case. With little food and even less sleep, Sherlock was at the end of his tether and running on fumes.

“Sherlock, you need to rest,” chided John.

“Stop mothering me John,” snapped Sherlock. “I need to figure this out. I owe it to Ozzie.”

“You won’t be any good if you fall over from exhaustion. All I’m asking is that you rest for at least an hour or two, just to recharge. I promise to wake you.” John seemed to be pleading with the detective.

Sherlock had heard that tone many times over the course of their friendship, and he knew John would keep hovering over him until he rested. “Very well,” he conceded. “But no more than an hour,” he said as he made his way to the couch to lie down.

“You’re not going to your room?” asked John. He was met with a wilting stare from his flat mate. “Fine. All right,” said John throwing his hands up in resignation. “Forget I said it.”

The moment he laid his head down to rest, Sherlock received a text from Bradstreet, and was immediately on his feet again. “Come on John, they’ve found another one.”

“Figures,” said John. “Right when I get you to rest.”

Sherlock was already by the door, coat on and tying his scarf around his neck. “Are you coming?”

“Of course I’m coming, you berk, lead on.” John grabbed his coat and opened the door waving his arm in a grand ‘after you’ gesture.

Upon arrival at the scene, the first thing Sherlock noticed was how pristine it all was.  A stark contrast to the dirty warehouse they’d found Ozzie in. The body was located in an empty office of the modern building, hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room. Bright lights, shiny tile floors and stainless steel seemed to proliferate throughout.  

Other than Bradstreet’s men and the forensics team, the body was the only other thing in the room.

“Oh good,” came the snide whine from Anderson. “Now that _he’s_ finally here can we please get on with our work? I have more important things to do today than to wait on his nibs’ opinion.”

“Shut it Anderson,” said Bradstreet. “I called him.” He wasn’t in the mood to listen to the petty squabbling today.

Sherlock didn’t seem to be paying attention to Anderson anyway. He circled the body twice, looked at the man’s shoes, sniffed them and then took a sample to analyse later.

“All right, you can lower him.” Sherlock took several steps back to allow the forensics team in to do their job. While they were busy taking their own samples and photographs, Sherlock and John inspected the rest of the large empty office.

“So?” inquired John. “Is it someone you know?”

“I’m not certain,” said Sherlock – a perplexed look on his face.

“You’re not certain?” John was a little astounded. Sherlock was always certain.

“His face is not his face. I don’t recognise him, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know him. We’ll have to wait and see if he’s got any identification on him, otherwise we’ll have to wait for a fingerprint analysis and that could take days. Time we don’t have.”

John saw it first, just a smudge on one of the blinds – but it was enough that it was out of place in this environment.

“Sherlock,” said John getting the detective’s attention. “There,” he pointed to the window.

Sherlock moved swiftly and drew the shade revealing the killer’s message.

_“How do I rule the obsequious gang?”_

“What?” That’s it,” said John.

Sherlock moved away quickly to the next set of blinds and pulled them shut, revealing the rest of the message.

_“The secret is simple – I always hang.”_

The sentence ended with a picture of a black bishop chess piece.

“Sherlock, we’re ready for you,” called Bradstreet.

John pulled out his notebook and took down the message left by the killer, knowing full well that he really didn’t need to. Sherlock would’ve already committed it to memory.

Sherlock pulled his pocket magnifier out and carefully examined the man’s face and neck area. Then felt along the man’s impeccable suit, looking at the label and examining the stitching. After his examination, he stood and stepped back to John.

“John.” Sherlock indicated for John to take a look at the deceased. “What do you think?”

John pulled on a pair of examination gloves and crouched low over the body. He stretched the skin along the neck and jaw and felt along the esophagus and trachea, paying particular attention to the bruising that had formed on the neck. “Hm, yes… I see what you mean Sherlock.” John grinned up at his partner, pleased to finally be on the same page. “So who is he?”

“It appears his name is Marshall Elliot,” said Bradstreet.

“Wrong. I think you’ll find it the other way around, Detective Inspector. His real name is Elliot Marshall,” corrected Sherlock.

“So you know him as well then?” asked Bradstreet.

“He’s had plastic surgery, but yes…I know him. As with Ozzie, Elliot was able to get himself off the streets. He was an amazing tailor. I haven’t purchased a new suit in some time, but I used to have all of them altered by Elliot. The man was a genius with fabrics. I’d heard his clientele was more upscale now- celebrities and such. He was very helpful on several cases, but I haven’t talked to him in over two years. He must’ve decided to change his name, make a new start- hence the plastic surgery. He most likely wanted his clients to think he came from money.”

“How can you tell he’s had surgery?” Bradstreet was now hunched over the corpse trying to see any signs of an operation.

“You have to look along the jaw line,” said John stepping up behind Bradstreet. “Also around the ears…there are small incisions in the lines in his neck. They’re harder to see because of the bruising, but they’re there. He also wasn’t hanged.”

Sherlock gave John a small nod to continue.

“The scarf that you found him hanging from couldn’t have done the damage to the hyoid bone that you’re going to find. This poor man has been strangled.” John looked to Sherlock and found the affirmation he expected – still it was always a thrill impressing Sherlock.

“Yes, spot on I think Doctor Watson,” agreed Sherlock. “He was hanged to make a point. The message from the blinds…”

“The black bishop – another chess piece,” offered John.

“Chess is often used as a metaphor for spies. Both Ozzie and Elliot have been my eyes and ears on the streets, my spies as it were. So how does the murderer ‘rule my spies’? He kills them. He’s going after anyone that’s helped me solve a case. But why? Why not just come after me?”

“He may,” said John taking on a darker, more serious tone.

“That puts you in harm’s way as well John. You must be vigilant,” said Sherlock ignoring John’s comment. “Take care when you’re on your own.” Sherlock took a step closer. “I mean it, no playing hero.”

John scoffed. “I’m not the one that goes running off half- cocked Sherlock. That’s you. Don’t you worry about me, I was a soldier remember? I can handle myself.”

“Sherlock, besides warning John, is there a way to contact the homeless network to let them know what’s happening so they can look out for one another?” asked Bradstreet.

“It’s already done,” he answered. "I contacted them after we found Ozzie. It seems though, that our mysterious murderer is only interested in going after those that have been able to assimilate back into society successfully.”

“Do you know the names of those that have been able to make the transition?” asked Bradstreet.

“Sherlock shook his head, “No. Once they made it off the street they didn’t keep in touch. I don’t blame them really. I’m a reminder of their past.”

If John hadn’t been looking, he would have completely missed the wistful look that passed over Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock straightened. “I think we’re finished here. Email Molly’s findings once she’s completed the autopsy. I’d like to know if he was drugged before he died.”

Xx

Once in the taxi back to Baker Street Sherlock pulled out his mobile and began typing fast and furiously.

“What is it?” inquired John leaning over to see what Sherlock was doing.

“That saying – the one on the blinds…I’ve seen it somewhere before. I just can’t place it.”

John could see it was bothering Sherlock not being able figure out the riddle. “It’ll come, you’ll get it.” He laid his hand on Sherlock’s thigh and leaned over to whisper in Sherlock’s ear. “My dear man, you always do.” With an affirming pat on Sherlock’s thigh, John slid away to let the detective think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone familiar with canon will begin to recognise some of the victims' names as those from the irregulars in the original stories only with a modern twist.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing.
> 
> Sherlock Holmes, John Watson et al. are creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (with the modern adaptation this fic is based on being created in the brilliant minds of Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss). I’ve just had a fiddle with them.
> 
> This chapter is mostly, well alright it’s all, sexy times. If M/M isn’t your thing and you just want murder mystery I suggest skipping it. I’ll do a brief recap at the start of the next chapter of the one plot point that is covered in this chapter that pertains to the case. 
> 
> This chapter hasn't been beta'd so please let me know if you find anything out of place. :)

 

Sherlock couldn’t sleep. Not only was the case bothering him, he still hadn’t figured out the poem. It was infuriating. He’d spent all evening in his mind palace sifting through every room and came up with nothing. Several searches on the internet proved futile as well.

“Why can’t I find it!” Sherlock slammed his hands down on the table, rousing John who had dozed off in his chair.

“Sherlock?” said John sleepily.

“This isn’t working.” Sherlock got up and started pacing.

John stood and stretched. He went to the kitchen and put the kettle on.

“John.” Sherlock had followed John in and was now standing behind him, pressing against him and mouthing his ear.

“No.” The answer came swiftly.

“Please? I can’t think.”

“Well that won’t help. You can’t use that as a crutch for when you can’t focus. Not to mention, I won’t be a party to it.” John pushed back to give himself more room, but Sherlock didn’t budge.

“I could always go elsewhere to get it,” Sherlock purred in John’s ear, sucking on the earlobe again to emphasise his point.

“You could…but you won’t.” John knew Sherlock. Better than Sherlock knew himself most times. He knew Sherlock would never betray his trust like that.

John turned in place and Sherlock crowded in on him, placing his hands on either side of John on the counter, effectively trapping him as he ground himself up against John. “Please?” he pleaded.

“Sherlock – mm- this isn’t right. It’s not healthy.” John could feel himself getting harder. “Addiction is not just about drugs. You can’t substitute sex. It’s wrong and it’s not fair to me.”

“John,” Sherlock rubbed up against John, kissing along his jawline and sucking at his neck as he cupped John’s growing erection.

“Ungh. Dammit Sherlock!” John’s small amount of willpower finally gave and he grabbed Sherlock’s arse pulling him closer and kissing him passionately.

John moved forward. His intention was to back Sherlock up enough and to escape to safer ground. However, his brain was overridden by the powerful feeling in his crotch. So instead of making his escape, he backed Sherlock to the bedroom as he rapidly undressed. Once they reached the bedroom, Sherlock took control. He turned John and pushed him down onto the bed.

“I will never get enough of you John Watson. I **_am_** addicted and I freely admit it. How can that be wrong?” Sherlock began to strip in front of John who was lying on the bed propped up on his elbows, enjoying the strip show.  “So what if a by-product of mind blowing sex with you helps me to focus more? It still means something – it’s not just a shag for shag’s sake. You are mine, and I am yours.”

Sherlock was completely naked now and extremely hard, drops of pre come glistening at the head of his cock.

John licked his bottom lip and spread his legs wider, inviting Sherlock in. “Yes, but you take advantage of the fact that I can’t say no to you. Not with this…not with anything.”

Sherlock reached over and grabbed the lube from the nightstand. The case fading to the background as thoughts of a debauched and thoroughly fucked John Watson took their place. “I will stop … if that’s what you truly want,” he purred as he flipped the top of the lube open and emptied a generous amount in his palm. “However, I think you’d enjoy this much more instead,” he said as he palmed John’s erection and began to stroke.

Uh-mm Sherlock,” sighed John. “Yes…much more. Keep doing that – mm yes. Oh yes, there.” John’s back arched as he pushed himself into Sherlock’s palm.

“Yes John,” growled Sherlock. “Tell me what you want.” He moved his hand slowly down John’s shaft to his glands, massaging them before moving his slick fingers to tease at John’s hole.

“Christ. Sherlock. What you do to me,” mewled John bending his legs to plant his feet on the bed and give Sherlock better access.

“So I’ll take that as you want me to continue?” said Sherlock as he slid the tip of his middle finger into John while he stroked his thumb over the head of John’s cock.

“Ungh,” strained John. “Don’t you fucking dare stop now.”

Sherlock chuckled. “I knew you’d come around,” he said as he slid his middle finger all the way in.

Sherlock loved seeing John this way…so undone and out of control. He pulled out his finger and pushed back in brushing John’s prostate in the process. John gripped the sheets and gasped, writhing and begging for Sherlock to speed up his ministrations.  Sherlock continued to prepare John, pressing two fingers in – then three. Delicately passing over the bundle of nerves again and again until it seemed John could take no more.

“For Christ’s sake Sherlock, if you do that again I’m going to come. Please, have mercy you cruel man. Take me now before you kill me,” begged John.

Sherlock’s fingers halted as he looked down at John. “What did you say? Exactly. What did you just say?” He was deadly serious.

John saw the look. Knew it well. “I said for you to have mercy on me you damned fool. I’m coming apart here.”

A fire blazed in Sherlock’s eyes. “Oh John!” he exclaimed. “You brilliant man, I’ll have you now.” And with that Sherlock thrust into John ardently. Pounding in, fully sheathing himself in his lover. “You have, unh…no idea how you complete me, mm unh.” Sherlock was circling his hips with each thrust into John to emphasise each word.

“Sher-uh…Sher oh god…mm,” John babbled as he tried to grab on to something for support. Finally able to hook a leg around Sherlock, the next thrust went deep and right against his prostate. John arched and came instantly, screaming Sherlock’s name.

As John’s ring of muscles clamped down it only took another few hard thrusts before Sherlock tumbled over the edge. Body damp with sweat, Sherlock virtually collapsed over John.

“Hmph, Sherlock!” John huffed. “Bloody hell man, gods what you do to me.”

“Mm,” was all Sherlock managed – clearly not completely coherent. He could feel himself growing soft inside John, but was loathed to pull out as it would mean he would actually have to move.

After a few moments of stillness, John carded his hand through Sherlock’s damp curls. “Sherlock, you’re not falling asleep on me are you? I need to clean up or I’ll be a sticky mess.”

“Don’t care. Don’t move. Warm.” Sherlock snuggled in closer, nuzzling John’s neck.

John kissed the top of Sherlock’s head. “I know, but I’ve still got to do it and that means you have to move. Come on.” He kissed the top of Sherlock’s head again and moved his hips to spur some action.

“Ugh,” Sherlock groaned. “Very well,” he said resigned and pulled out of John as he climbed off.

John winced slightly.

Noticing John’s discomfort, Sherlock said, “Stay…I’ll get you a flannel.” He then leaned forward and kissed John. “I’m sorry if I hurt you,” he said sincerely.

John grabbed Sherlock’s face. “Don’t you dare. That was amazing. It’s not every day I can actually _feel_ how much you love me _._ Jesus, Sherlock. That… I,” John muttered. “What did I do to deserve something that incredible?”

Sherlock looked deep into John’s eyes, seeing the love there. “Flannel first,” he said after clearing the emotional lump in his throat. He moved from the bed to the loo, then back with a warm rag and began cleaning up John.

John stilled Sherlock’s hand. “Tell me.”

“Mercy,” said Sherlock. “You asked for mercy.”

“Sherlock,” John began. “I. That’s not what I meant. Surely…you don’t think…”

“Don’t be dull John. I’ve just ridden you like a show pony and you loved every minute of it.”

“Git,” replied John smiling up at Sherlock.

“The poem – on the blinds at the crime scene. I know where it’s from. It’s called ‘The Hanging Judge’. John whoever is doing this, they know me…not only that I know them as well.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock closes in on the killer, but is he too late to save John?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing. If I did a certain actor with the initials BC would be waiting with cocktails every day when I get home from work. 
> 
> Apologies for the long wait between update. Work has been keeping me quite busy and a certain Consulting Detective is back so I’ve been a little distracted. 
> 
> Sherlock Holmes, John Watson et al. are creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (with the modern adaptation this fic is based on being created in the brilliant minds of Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss). I’ve just had a fiddle with them. 
> 
> This chapter hasn't been beta'd so please let me know if you find anything out of place. :)

 

_“The poem – on the blinds at the crime scene. I know where it’s from. It’s called ‘The Hanging Judge’. John whoever is doing this, they know me…not only that I know them as well.”_

When John awoke the next morning he wasn’t surprised to find the space next to him cold and empty. Sherlock often left the bed during the night to think. However, what John did find surprising was that the man had left the flat completely. John picked up his mobile to text Sherlock.

_Where are you?_

_Canary Warf – Double Homicide. SH_

Of all the things Sherlock did that infuriated John, this was the worst. Going off alone on cases. John hated it when Sherlock thought nothing of leaving him behind.

_I can be there in 20 min._

_Don’t. SH_

John threw the phone down on the bed and huffed. “Fine. You arse. Be that way. Hope you enjoyed your night. It’ll be the last one you’re getting for a while.”

He went to the kitchen to set the kettle on before heading to the loo for his morning toilet. He reeked of sex and currently he wanted no reminder of the previous night’s activities.

~ ~

Sherlock was already awake when he received the text from Bradstreet regarding the two bodies discovered near the Canary Warf pier. Even though he’d said differently to John, Sherlock did feel guilty for taking advantage the way he had. He knew John would deny him nothing, much the same way Sherlock couldn’t deny John. However, it was wrong and Sherlock knew it. Still, it had brought clarity to the case. John was in danger from an as yet unseen foe, and anything Sherlock could do to keep him out of the fray he would do. Even if it meant John’s wrath later. It was for that reason when John texted him he merely replied, “Don’t.”

Sherlock knew it would set John off, but the realisation that Sherlock knew the killer, and even more that the killer knew Sherlock, made it all the more important for Sherlock to solve the case – and quickly before the unthinkable happened.

 

 

The two bodies were found facing each other, impaled by a spear that ran through the centre of their chests. Hanging on the end of the spear was a note that read:

_One plant in my legal garden grows:_

_The mandrake’s shriek is the solace I chose;_

_And I water my treasure whenever I can_

_With the blood that drips from a gibbeted man._

_~I AM THE JUDGE!_

“Sherlock,” said Bradstreet. “Please tell me you know who the killer is.”

“It would appear to be someone who is fond of Alfred George Stephens,” answered Sherlock.

“Who?”

“Precisely,” said Sherlock. “A very specific and obscure poet. The only one I know. Only one the killer would know I know, and also how I know it.”

“And how do you know it?”

“I used to quote it, but it was more like a mantra back then,” Sherlock said clearly distracted and lost in his thoughts. “I have to go,” he said suddenly and started to leave to find a cab.

“Oh no you don’t,” said Bradstreet gripping Sherlock’s arm and spinning him around. “You may pull that shite with Lestrade, but I’m having none of it. You’re going to tell me what you know, and right now or I’ll have you locked up for obstruction.”

“Bradstreet, I don’t have time for explanations,” barked Sherlock pulling his arm free. Sherlock reached in his pocket, pulling out his mobile to ring John. He wanted to make sure he was okay if Bradstreet were going to delay his return to Baker Street.

The more rings that went unanswered the more worried Sherlock became. He rang off and tried again – finally on the sixth ring a strange voice came over the receiver.

“Hello?” said the voice.

“Where’s John?” Sherlock’s voice betrayed none of the terror he was feeling inside.

“Is this Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes? The one that shares a flat with John Watson at 221 B Baker Street?”

 _A voice of authority,_ deduced Sherlock _. Clearly by the tone they were using. Used to dealing with victims. An officer perhaps._ ***Oh god John***

“Yes, this is Sherlock Holmes. What’s happened to John?” Sherlock’s voice did waiver then ever so slightly over John’s name. Nothing noticeable of course, but enough for Sherlock to realise he would be completely lost if something happened to his John.

“Mr. Holmes, you need to come to Baker Street at once. There’s been a break in. Your landlady, Mrs. Hudson, has been injured and there’s evidence something may have happened to your flat mate.”

~~

When Sherlock arrived, the flat was swarming with authorities. Mrs. Hudson was being looked after by a pair of paramedics who were trying to get her onto a gurney to go to hospital, but having no luck convincing her.

Upon seeing Sherlock enter Mrs. Hudson cried out, “Oh Sherlock!”

Sherlock moved forward in an instant and held her hands, assessing her injuries. _Broken finger, broken rib…perhaps two. Bruised eye – will be black and blue by tomorrow. Possible concussion from blow to the head – three stitches needed._

Mrs. Hudson had put up an incredible fight against the intruder.

“Sherlock – John…he… Oh Sherlock,” was all she could manage before completely breaking down into sobs.

“Rest easy Mrs. Hudson,” comforted Sherlock, gently patting her on the shoulder. “Whoever did this to you will pay dearly. Now do stop arguing and let them take you to hospital. You’re quite injured and I would feel much better knowing you were being cared for and out of harms way.”

“Very well dear, if you think I should go,” she sighed.

“Good. Now please, before you go, can you tell me what you know about what happened to John?”

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing.
> 
>  
> 
> Sherlock Holmes, John Watson et al. are creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (with the modern adaptation this fic is based on being created in the brilliant minds of Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss). I’ve just had a fiddle with them.
> 
> This chapter hasn't been beta'd so please let me know if you find anything out of place. :)

 

John Watson abhorred torture. In Afghanistan, the torture of captured soldiers happened all the time, no matter which side. On several occasions, John was called in to treat a prisoner that had been tortured only to return several days later to patch up the same captive after having received another round of so called interrogation. In John’s opinion, the only real reason to torture someone was for the pleasure of it, a sadist. So he wasn’t surprised in the least that his captor fell in that category.

“I am the judge, the flower of the law. Bolstered in, privileged, all men’s awe.”

John was vaguely aware of someone speaking as he came to. It was hard to think and impossible to move. John realised he was transfixed to a crucifix, just like Jesus himself. He even had a crown of thorns set atop his head. The only small mercy John could see was that his hands and feet were not nailed to the cross, but bound instead. Blood was flowing rather freely from his body where he’d been beaten by his captor. The injury to his head from the crown was dripping blood in his eyes making it difficult to see.

John’s tormentor came further into view. He was a tall, thin man with neatly cropped blond hair. If asked to recall him later, John would say he looked like that bloke from True Blood, the Scandinavian looking one. He just had to make it out of his current situation first.

“A week well spent brings Sabbath content,” the man continued, paying no mind to John’s awakened state. “To church my steps are piously bent… Welcome back Doctor Watson,” said the man in a voice so calm it set off warning alarms in John’s head.

Taking in the rest of the room now, John could see they were in a church and he was the focal point on the alter.

 _So then, a sacrifice_ , thought John.

“My final gambit,” said the man as he spun about the room, his arms stretched wide. “What do you think? Sherlock will come, I’m certain of it. You are his most prized piece.”

Well clearly the man was a nutter, no doubt about it. The question was, how could John stall for time?

“He’ll have to take the time to come procure his sacrificed piece,” he spun and looked up at John. “That’s you by the way if you haven’t guessed,” he said smiling up almost reverently.

The man was deranged.

“There’s just one more thing we need do first to let him know he must hurry.”

There was no time for John to react. Seemingly from nowhere, the man produced a spear and plunged it into John’s side, between his ribs and through into his lung.

~~~~~~~~

Mrs. Hudson’s account of the attack had garnered no real new information. The attacker, as he’d done before, left a note along with another chess piece. A queen this time – the most valuable piece of the game. “Invaluable,” murmured Sherlock.

The note read:

‘A week well spent, brings Sabbath content

To Church my steps are piously bent.

When the holy man reads the holy book

I grieve for the god, the gods forsook,

So clumsily crucified: pity rises.

He was not a remnant to my assizes!’

 

Sherlock was in the lab running tests on the samples he’d gathered at the Marshall crime scene. There had to be a clue on where to find John. There just had to. Without something tangible to go on, it would be almost impossible to find him. There was no telling what John was being put through, and Sherlock couldn’t help but feel it was entirely his fault.

 

~~~~~~

Victor Trevor and Sherlock had become friends during his University days; more than friends really. The two were very rarely ever seen out of the company of the other. Hours upon hours were spent talking, reading, playing chess and satisfying one another’s sexual desires. Victor stimulated Sherlock’s mind as well as his body and they were some of the happiest times Sherlock had ever known, or thought he would know, until John. During their studies, Victor and Sherlock learned of an obscure poet by the name of Alfred George Stephens. A writer and literary critic from Australia, Stephens was like Victor and Sherlock’s own little secret. They’d memorised the poem “The Hanging Judge”, and periodically used passages as code when around others. Years later Sherlock would often recite passages of it to his homeless network for the same reason.

 

The relationship went horribly wrong their final year at University. Victor wanted to bring Sherlock home to meet his parents. He hadn’t yet come out to his family and thought the happy atmosphere of the holidays might soften the blow. How very wrong he’d been. Not only were Victor’s parents livid at the idea that their son was gay, they placed the blame for “turning him” on Sherlock. Once they turned their wrath on Sherlock, he did the only thing he knew how to do to defend himself… he deduced them.

 

“Mother – alcoholic…but who could blame her. Father is a serial adulterer and embezzler from his company.”

 

The list went on, of course, and Victor had begged Sherlock to stop, but by then it was too late. Mr. Trevor was advancing on Sherlock, shouting abuses, when suddenly his face went white and he fell to the floor, dead of a massive heart attack.

 

Things were never the same after that day. Sherlock tried on several occasions to see Victor – to try and patch things up between them, but it was no good. Victor began to feel that his family had been right all along. It was Sherlock that had led him down a primrose path, filled with sin and abomination. After that, Sherlock swore to himself that he’d never let anyone else get that close. However, he never counted on a certain Army Doctor coming along and putting a spanner in the works of his heart.

 

~~~~~~

Sherlock’s mobile beeped from his breast pocket. Possibly the test results he was waiting on from Molly. Opening the text, Sherlock was horrified to find a picture of John splayed out on a cross, a gaping wound in his side.

 

The text read: “So clumsily crucified. Your ‘queen’ is dying.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own nothing.
> 
> Sherlock Holmes, John Watson et al. are creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (with the modern adaptation this fic is based on being created in the brilliant minds of Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss). I’ve just had a fiddle with them.
> 
> Very sorry for the long delay.  
> This has not been beta'd so if you find an error please do let me know. :)

Sherlock recognised where John was being held immediately. He would never forget standing at the back of the church watching the funeral proceedings of Victor’s father. Sherlock only hoped there was still time to save John. He had no idea of knowing how long ago the photo that Victor sent him had been taken, and for all he knew it may already be too late. Even if John didn’t bleed out from the wound to his side, he could die from suffocation. Sherlock’s coping mechanism kicked in, deducing exactly what was happening to John, possibly at that very moment.

_Difficult to breathe. Muscles rising from the shoulder girdle and attaching on the chest wall would create an extraction force on the chest. This could cause respiration to become paradoxical. Exhaling would become an active process, requiring pulling up with the arms to allow the diaphragm and chest wall muscles to relax to let the air out, and inhaling becoming a passive process occurring when the arms relax, again causing an extraction force to the chest wall forcing air into the lungs._

John had a bad shoulder on a good day, hung from the cross as he was, he wouldn’t be able to last very long trying to pull himself up enough to expand his diaphram.

“Hold on John,” said Sherlock quickening his pace even more. “I’m coming, just hold on.”

XXX

 

John was dying. As he hung from the cross, blood seeping from his side, he tried to remember his catholic upbringing. How long had it taken? How long was it before Jesus succumbed? As a doctor, John knew it could be a matter of hours, or of days.  The wound to his side didn’t help matters either. By John’s calculations, it cut his survival time in half. On top of that was his dodgy shoulder. There would only be a few attempts at lifting himself to relieve the pressure on his chest enough to breathe before the pain from his old war injury would force him to relent. John supposed he could try using his legs somewhat, but knew that wouldn’t give the relief needed to carry on breathing. He was well and truly fucked this time.

XXX

 

 It was almost dark by the time Sherlock arrived at the church. Fixed to door was another of Victor’s notes:

And when remains of all creation,

But one alive from strangulation,

To your soul’s throat a garrote I’ll fit

With a long drop into a bottomless pit:

And while you smother in agony

Of the whole hushed universe I’ll swear.

I am the Executioner.

The King is Dead.

 

The end game, of course, Sherlock should have realised he was the King in this twisted scenario that Victor was playing. All those games of chess they played so long ago, a happier time then, now warped in Victor’s mind into this. Sherlock heaved open the heavy double doors of the church and stood transfixed at the sight in front of him. Across the vestibule, down the aisle, was an unconscious John splayed out on the altar’s cross. Sherlock didn’t have time to deduce whether John was still alive before the breath was knocked from him by Victor’s sidelong tackle. The punches came fast and furious with Victor landing the majority of blows solidly to Sherlock’s face and gut. Sherlock getting control of Victor was like trying to tame a wild beast. The man seemed to be everywhere at once landing punch after punch when finally Sherlock mustered all of his strength and used both of his legs to push Victor off and away.

 

“ENOUGH!” shouted Sherlock scrambling to his feet. “This has gone on long enough Victor. Too many people have died already, and for what?”

 

“You’re asking me _for what_?” spat Victor. “All of this is your doing Sherlock Holmes, a direct result of your actions.”

 

“ ** _My_** actions?” countered Sherlock. “I wasn’t the one that insisted we come out at your family’s Christmas dinner. I hope your mind isn’t so twisted now to think that? No my dear Victor, that was your decision.”

 

Victor was seething, “If you hadn’t clouded my mind and tricked me into thinking I actually loved you, I would have never brought you home to meet my parents.  What we did, what you made me do, was an abomination and you are to blame. I’m quite certain you’re clear now on the consequences of such actions though, aren’t you?” He said with a smirk. “There’s no one to help you perpetuate your lies anymore Sherlock. I’ve taken care of all your little spies - removed them all from the playing field, including your precious queen over there. He put up a valiant fight that one,” Victor tilted his head to the side to indicate John. “I had to beat him rather severely just to get him up there I’m afraid. Not that it matters now. He’s quite dead.”

 

Sherlock paled and was visibly shaking after hearing Victor’s statement. “You better hope that’s not the case, Victor,” he said in a low, calm voice dripping with malice. “John is the best part of me, and if you’ve taken that away, I will kill you where you stand.”

 

“Well, isn’t that just beautiful?” replied Victor. “But I’m afraid you’ll never know you sick fuck, because you’re about to join him.” Victor pulled out a gun and pointed it at Sherlock’s head.

 

A gunshot rang out a moment later, followed closely by another.

 

XXX

John pulled the mugs down from the cupboard for tea. He noticed his RAMC cup had a large crack down one side.

“Sherlock! What did you do to my cup,” he shouted down the hall in the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom. No answer.

“The least you could have done was to let me know you broke it,” he exclaimed. “Sherlock! Are you even listening?”  

John walked down the hall to the bedroom and pushed the door open. “Sherlock,” he began but was stopped dead in his tracks by the sight in front of him. There,  hanging from a cross on the wall with his hands and feet nailed down, was Sherlock. His face was bloody from the crown of thorns pushed down low on his head. He was saying something, only John couldn’t make it out so he stepped inside the room to get closer. He was almost to Sherlock when finally he heard it.

“Shoot me,” Sherlock whispered.  “Please, John…I just need you to shoot me. I’m dying. Can’t you see? It’s better this way. You’ll be better off without me.” Blood was dripping in his eyes, but he continued to stare directly at John and repeat the same thing over and over. "Shoot me."

John continued to stare up into Sherlock's eyes, never looking away. Nodding once he slowly reached to the small of his back to find what he knew would be there. Yes, there it was, in the band of his trousers, his Sig. He pulled it forward. “Sherlock,” said John quietly. Then he lifted the pistol, aimed it at Sherlock and fired. Without hesitation he then put the pistol to his own head, said “I’m coming,” and fired.

John jolted awake at the sound, panting and coughing, trying to catch his breath. _Dreaming_. He’d only been dreaming. Thank God.

Suddenly there was a hand on his chest.

“John? John dear, you’re all right. You’re in hospital. Just lie back now or you’ll tear your stitches.”

John knew that voice.

“Mrs. Hudson?” rasped John, turning his head to find her standing next to his bed. “Wha…,” he started to say but it caught in his throat. Coughing, he tried to sit forward again and felt the pain in his side. “Argh!”  he groaned and laid back down.  

Mrs. Hudson grabbed the cup of water sitting on the nearby table and offered it to John. “Don’t talk. Drink,” she said in that mothering voice John knew so well.

As he sipped from the straw she offered, John noticed Mrs. Hudson’s hand and where a broken finger had been set. Finally, he looked up to her face and the bruises prominent around her left eye and cheek.

“Jesus, Mrs. H what did he do to you?” The look on his face was both sympathetic and angry.

“It’s nothing dear. I’m just happy we have you back,” she said with a small smile setting the water back on the table.

“Speaking of _we_ …” John let the question hang in the air expecting to hear what excuse Sherlock had for not sitting bedside waiting for him to wake up. Sherlock got bored so easily. John wouldn’t begrudge him not staying.

Mrs. Hudson’s face fell.

John knew in an instant something was very wrong.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very sorry for the long wait. I hope to update more frequently as this seems to be a very popular story. :) Thanks for that. 
> 
> I own nothing.
> 
> Sherlock Holmes, John Watson et al. are creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (with the modern adaptation this fic is based on being created in the brilliant minds of Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss). I’ve just had a fiddle with them. Speaking of Mark. Today is his birthday. So a big Happy Birthday for Mark Gatiss and I hope the next 3 eps of his fanfic (Sherlock) are just as great as the last. 
> 
> This hasn't been beta'd, so please let me know if you find any glaring errors. I tend to get carried away when it comes to conversation and sometimes my punctuation suffers for it. xxpj

“WHERE IS HE?” yelled John, struggling against several of the hospital staff, as he tried to get out of bed.

Mrs. Hudson backed into the nearest corner, her hand covering her mouth. She’d never seen John so feral.

“You need to calm down Doctor Watson.” Detective Bradstreet tried to reason with John over the orderlies.

After a few very long minutes, John’s strength finally faded and he settled. The orderlies backed away and Bradstreet approached the bed.

“Where is he Bradstreet? I heard a gunshot. In the church, I heard a gunshot, I know I did. Where is he?” John looked up pleadingly into the Detective’s face.

Bradstreet sighed and shook his head. “We don’t know Doctor Watson. We were hoping maybe you could tell us. I received a call from Miss Hooper with the results of the soil tests that were taken from the Elliot murder and where that particular soil could be found. We also managed to trace Sherlock’s mobile via GPS to the church where you were being held. As I opened the door to the church I saw a man with a gun raised and pointed at Sherlock. I drew my weapon and fired, but not in time. The man fired, hitting Sherlock.”

John’s eyes grew wide. “Oh god,” he whispered. “How bad? How bad was he hit.” Finally it struck him. “Wait. What do you mean you don’t know where he is? You just said you saw him hit.”

“That’s correct. He took one in the shoulder.”

John visibly relaxed. A shoulder wound, nothing more. Sherlock would be fine. But where the hell was he then?

 Bradstreet interrupted John’s thoughts. “The suspect hadn’t even hit the ground before Sherlock  ran down the aisle to you. He kept mumbling something over and over. I have to admit, seeing you …well I thought you were dead Doctor. You weren't conscious and your side was bleeding profusely. I believe Sherlock must have thought the same. He cut you down, lowering you gently to the ground and held you in his arms, feeling for a pulse, then kissing your forehead. I felt like I was intruding, it was a final good-bye after all. It was really none of my business, so I went out to give him some privacy and called the ambulance. I was outside no more than two minutes, three at the most. When I returned to let him know the ambulance was on the way, he was gone. It took some measure to get your heart started again and they worked on you the entire way to the hospital. I still can't understand how it is you're here.”

John sucked in a great breath. “He thinks I’m dead? Oh, god…Sherlock thinks I’m dead.” John moved to get out of bed. “How long have I been here? I need to go. I can’t be here. I need to find him.”

“Doctor Watson, you’ve only been here since yesterday. You cannot leave, we need to monitor your condition. You’ll tear your stitches if you don’t calm down,” instructed a nearby nurse.

“Fuck calm!” John shouted. “I don’t give a damn if my stitches come loose. We’ve got to find Sherlock before he does something rash.” John swung his legs over the side of the bed, holding his side as he lifted himself upright. “We may already be too late.”

“John,” said Mrs. Hudson coming forward from the corner. “What can I do? What do you need?”

“Go back to Baker Street, make sure he’s not in the flat or hasn’t been there. If he’s there, make sure you let him know I’m alive. Be sure it’s the first thing you say to him. The very first. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she said. She leaned forward and put her hand on top of John’s. “We’ll find him dear.” She nodded once and then left.

“Where’s my mobile? My clothes?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” replied Bradstreet. “You weren’t wearing much when we found you and none of your effects were at the scene.

“Christ.” John stood, grabbing at his side. “Then can someone get me some clothes so I can get the hell out of here? And Bradstreet, you might want to see if you can do that trace thing again. With any luck Sherlock won’t have turned his phone off. It’s a very long shot, but let’s hope for the best shall we?”

Twenty minutes later John had a pair of borrowed trousers, a t-shirt from the tourist shop on the corner and a pair of crocs for his feet from one of the nurses. It wasn't the worst thing he'd ever worn, but it was close.

The mobile trace had come up empty. John knew it was a long shot. If roles had been reversed, and John thought Sherlock were dead, he’d have turned his phone off too.

Calls to Molly, Lestrade and Mycroft had proved fruitless as well. John told them the same thing he told Mrs. Hudson. “If you see him, be sure you let him know right away that I’m alive. It’s imperative.”

“Why?” Lestrade questioned, not understanding.

“Because,” said John impatiently. “If it was me, and I was determined to do something…” John swallowed, “…drastic, I would throw myself into it if I thought someone was going to try and stop me. Do you understand what I’m saying now?”

“Perfectly,” said Greg gravely.

John suddenly had an idea of where Sherlock might be. “Greg, when Sherlock was using, did he have a specific dealer he went to? Was there a certain place he'd go to use?”

“Jesus. You don’t really think he’d…” began Lestrade.

“I think Sherlock would, if he thought I were dead. Yes. He most definitely would. Just like he would know that I’d put a bullet in my brain if I thought he was dead. That’s why we are made for each other. Two halves of a whole Lestrade. Not one without the other.”

“Black Prince Road, Lambeth by Vauxhaull Walk. That’s where I would find him more often than not.”

“Thank you Greg. Just pray I find him in time.”

“Good luck John, and be careful.”

“If he’s lost to me, careful won’t matter.” John turned and headed out to hail a cab.

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry for the super duper long delay in getting this finished. The road block in my brain was severe, but it's finally finished. If you've stuck it out to see how it ends then thank you so so much. 
> 
> I'd also like to send some beta thanks to the lovely PrehistoricCat. Thank you so much for massaging my story for me and keeping me on the straight and narrow. Everyone should check out her stories. She's a fantastic Primeval/Primeval New World fic writer. 
> 
> Now, on to the disclaimer stuff...
> 
> I own nothing.  
> Sherlock Holmes, John Watson et al. are creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (with the modern adaptation this fic is based on being created in the brilliant minds of Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss).  
> I’ve just had a fiddle with them.

“Black Prince Road,” called the cab driver as the car slowed. “You sure you want to stop here, mate? Not really the best neighbourhood for a stroll and you don’t look like you could handle any altercation, if you don’t mind me saying.”

John opened the door to exit the cab. “An altercation is the least of my worries, but I appreciate your concern.” Stepping out, he grit his teeth at the sudden pain in his side, feeling the pull of his stitches. With all of the hurried activity, he could feel that some of the sutures had come loose. If there were too much more jostling about the wound would fully reopen. It was already beginning to seep heavily.

The light of the day was fading as John began walking down Black Prince Road, he was well aware there were several pairs of eyes already on him. He was certainly out of place here and he knew it. He didn’t care, as long as he found Sherlock.

John spotted a young woman who looked to be sleeping rough and bedding down for the night, so he decided to stop and ask if she’d seen Sherlock. “Excuse me, I don’t mean to bother, but I’m looking for my friend. I’m John Watson and he’s…”

“Sherlock ‘olmes,” cut in the woman. “Yeah, I knows 'im. I’m Margaret. Spoken to ‘im a number of times. Also, seen you two in the papers.”

“Yes, that’s us. Look, I know Sherlock has help sometimes with our cases from some of you that sleep rough. Have you seen him today? It’s very important I find him, he’s injured and needs my help.”

“I just got kicked out the shelter today, so I ain’t seen ‘im, but Bill might’ve done. He’s just ‘round the corner there,” she pointed in the general direction of a nearby house. “Hope you find Mr. ‘olmes, he’s good to us. He don’t treat us as rubbish like the rest do.”

“Thank you Margaret,” John stood up and nodded gratefully before he headed off to find Bill. As John turned the corner he saw a man slumped in a doorway with a blanket draped over his shoulders and his head bowed low. The shock of dark curls startled John at first, but there was no mistaking that head of hair. He rushed to him at once grasping his side as he knelt down to touch the man’s bowed head.

“Sherlock,” breathed John. “Sherlock answer me.” John lifted Sherlock’s head back and gently pulled an eye open. “Please, god, please,” John pleaded. “Please tell me you didn’t…” he pulled the blanket away to reveal a blood soaked shirt. Pulling the shirt away from Sherlock’s shoulder revealed the wound.

_GSW* to the shoulder, clean through and through…No bone involvement. It would heal completely._

Looking further down Sherlock’s arm, that was all John saw. Nothing else. No needle marks.

John reached up and felt for a pulse. Weak, but still there. “Sherlock, you need to wake up,” John shook Sherlock lightly to rouse him.

Sherlock had lost a fair amount of blood and needed attention quickly before he went into hypovolemic shock. John pulled out the mobile he’d ‘borrowed’ from the hospital lost and found and called for an ambulance. After ringing off John tried to wake Sherlock again.

“Sherlock,” John said softly as he ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “Dear man, can you hear me? Come on now, you’ve got to wake up. Help is on the way. Now open your eyes and look at me. Let me know you’re still here.”

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered.

“That’s it,” encouraged John. “Come on, open those piercing blue eyes of yours and look at me. Let’s go Holmes, do it. Now!” he shook Sherlock again, a bit more roughly.

Sherlock’s eyes opened slowly.

“Hello there,” John smiled.

“Sorry,” whispered Sherlock. “My John. Couldn’t. Save. All my fault. Dead. My fault. See you soon. Love.” Closing his eyes, his head fell forward again.

“No.” John grabbed both of Sherlock’s arms. “Sherlock, I’m not dead. Look at me please.”

Sherlock lifted his head and opened his eyes to look at John. “John?” Sherlock squinted to focus more clearly at the blurry blob in front of him. “How? You were dead. I. You. You were. No pulse. How?”

“Yeah, well apparently my heart had a reason to keep beating.” John kissed Sherlock’s forehead and pulled him close. Finally, hearing the sounds of sirens in the distance John said, “We’re okay. It’s all going to be okay.”

X X X X X X

After a scene was made by both men when they arrived at A&E, John was allowed to stay with Sherlock while his injuries were seen to. Unbeknownst to either man, due to all the bending and stress his side had taken, John’s wound had completely unraveled and began to bleed profusely.

The doctor made John lie on a gurney to address his injury where the open wound was now stitched together using staples, causing John a fair amount of pain. Seeing John's blood soaked shirt and his pained expressions set Sherlock off again, but John was able to calm him. “It’s alright,” said John placatingly. “I’m just right here.”

Sherlock calmed enough to let the doctor finish treating his shoulder. A unit of blood was now making its way into Sherlock’s body to replace what he’d lost, and his ghostly pallor receded the more blood he received. John could tell Sherlock began to feel better soon after the first unit had gone in because the man was becoming more verbally abusive by the minute.

By the time they were ensconced in a private room arranged for them by Mycroft, it was well into the early hours of the next morning.

“Sherlock,” called John from his bed. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better,” said Sherlock flatly.

“Quite,” the corner of John’s mouth turned up slightly. “I have to say, I’m glad for that shoulder injury though.”

“Well, that’s a bit cruel.” Sherlock sounded surprised at his doctor’s confession.

“Just listen will you?” John carefully got out of bed and padded barefoot over to where Sherlock lay. “Budge over,” he said climbing in to lie next to Sherlock.

Now nestled next to Sherlock, he continued. “I’m not happy you were shot, but I am glad that your shoulder was injured only in so much as it inadvertently kept you from using, which we both know saved your life.”

“John, I know you’re probably angry with me for what I was going to do.”

“I won’t say I’m not, maybe just a little,” concurred John. “But if the tables were turned, I’d have done the same. Maybe not the same way, but there’s no way I’d be able to survive another Sherlock death. Never again.”

“We’re a bit mental aren’t we?” Sherlock wrapped his good arm around John.

“Only a bit?” John smiled and leaned forward, kissing Sherlock lightly. “Mm…I’m knackered. Mind if I kip here in your bed for a little while?”

“John, there’s no way I’m letting you go right now, so sleep away my good man.” Sherlock leaned his head against John’s, kissing his temple.

John was quiet for some time and just when Sherlock thought he was asleep John said, “So…you and Victor?”

“Mm,” replied Sherlock noncommittally.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, not really but as you were adversely affected by our acquaintance, I think it only fair I give an explanation.”

“Only if you’re sure but later, yeah? We both need to rest now.”

Sherlock nestled in closer. “As you like John, I’m not going anywhere.”

Both men were asleep within minutes.

 X X X X X X

Several hours later John and Sherlock were awakened by Bradstreet, who’d come to collect their statements. First to follow up on what had happened to John during his abduction, then next what transpired between Sherlock and Victor before Bradstreet’s arrival at the church.

“We’re thinking his mum’s death was the trigger,” said Bradstreet. “She died about a month and a half ago. Cancer. Well, cancer by way of suicide. She was terminal. There was a letter found among Victor’s things. She shot herself and left him a note. According to authorities, Victor was the one that found the body. He hadn’t even known she had cancer.” Bradstreet’s face pinched in a confused manner. “What I don’t get is why he targeted you two and those homeless contacts.”

“Maybe he just saw Sherlock in the papers or on the telly and became fixated,” offered John as an explanation that wouldn’t involve dragging Sherlock’s relationship with Victor out into the open. It wasn’t anyone’s business but Sherlock’s and with Victor dead, no one needed to be any the wiser.

Sherlock couldn’t stay quiet though. It was important to get it all out. John needed to know. Ozzie, Elliot, Jason and Amanda at Canary Wharf...they all deserved closure. “Victor and I were…involved when we were at University together. He and I cared very deeply for each other; at least I thought he cared for me as much as I did for him. All of the clues from the crime scenes came from our time together. The chess pieces, the poem…just secret codes, ways to communicate without anyone else even realising. Victor wanted to finally bring our relationship into the open with his family. So, even though it was against my better judgment, I went home with him for the holidays during our last year. His family did not approve of our relationship and let’s just say it ended very badly. Victor blamed me for the way things turned out and he never spoke to me again. Just like that. Out of my life forever. Someone I thought I might spend the rest of my life with. You say his mother’s death was the trigger? I agree with this as the most likely cause. His father died before his eyes from a massive heart attack, so his mother’s death probably caused that all to come flooding back. He was a decent fellow once; before he let his parents warp his incredible mind. You know the rest regarding my homeless network. That’s all I care to say at this time. If you need more, I can come to the station once I’m released.”

Bradstreet seemed satisfied with Sherlock’s statement. “No, Mister Holmes. I think that’ll do. No need to drag things out.” Bradstreet gave John a nod and turned to go.

The room was silent for several minutes before John said, “I’m sorry.”

“Whatever for?” Sherlock tilted his head back to get a good look at John.

“About Victor. Whatever he became, it wasn’t your fault you know? I’m sad that you had to deal with all of that. It couldn’t have been easy for you. Something like that? You must’ve been crushed.”

“It wasn’t long after that I was on the street, using and not caring whether I lived or died.”

“Well,” John squeezed Sherlock tighter. “I for one am very happy you lived.”

“You know, it’s no wonder I didn’t recognise you when you found me yesterday. What the hell were you wearing anyway?”

“Whatever I could beg, borrow or steal from the hospital, and I’m sure your lapse at not recognising me had little to do with my wardrobe and more to do with the fact that you’d lost a considerable amount of blood and thought I was dead.”

Sherlock winced at the word 'dead'. "Don't," he whispered, pulling John closer to wrap his leg possessively over John’s as they lie in the narrow hospital bed. 

“Sorry.” John turned to face Sherlock and kissed him tenderly on the lips.

“You appear to be quite indestructible,” stated Sherlock when they parted. Lightly stroking the bandage over the stapled area at John’s side he softly said, “How many lives do you have John Watson?”

John took Sherlock’s face in his hands, rubbing his thumb along Sherlock’s bottom lip.

“Just the one, but it’s all for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *GSW - Gun Shot Wound
> 
> Thanks again to all of you who have commented or kudos'd. It means a lot that you take the time to do so. xxpj


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